It is the Saturday morning following the opening night of a Whitaker Family Reunion and the family is shuffling in for breakfast at our typical disjointed pace. I am among the many who arrive well past the appointed meeting hour, but certainly not the last.

As our brood trickles in, what catches my attention is that my niece, Debby, who – while most of us are barely combed and just one step out of our pajamas – is coifed, bejeweled and dressed as if she’s headed off to assume the lead role in a television show immediately following the meal – is nose-to-nose with a young woman I don’t recognize.

Now, our family is huge (some would say ridiculously huge) and it was a long night last night, so I silently run a PowerPoint presentation in my head searching for any kind of recall as to who this lovely young person might be. One of my nephew’s girlfriends? Somebody’s college roommate? A pal of one of Debby’s daughter’s? Nothing.

While frantically searching for coffee, I glance again over at my niece and see that she is now holding both of this woman’s hands with one of hers, while the woman holds back tears. Debby’s other hand is pointing straight in this woman’s face as she whispers something “1, 2, 3…” I can’t hear what she is saying but the young woman is taking in every word and nodding her head in agreement.

“OKAY!” Debby says loud enough for us to hear. “GO! I’ll be right here!” and the woman scampers away.

“You are not going to believe that sad story,” Debby turns back to the table and begins in her mile-a-minute banter, before I, or any of the others who have now increased our table size can even say a word, “that’s Bonnie, our waitress. She is in a horrible relationship. Her boyfriend treats her like crap and she is so lonely and having such a hard time. She can’t make enough money at this restaurant to go back to college and she’s super smart……”

“Wait, Deb, when did you meet her?” one of us is able to interrupt, amidst a few whispers of “Waitress….did I hear waitress?”

“Oh, she sat me at the table when I got down her this morning and we just started talking.”

See, that’s the way it is with my niece, Debby. Five seconds in, and her smile – no, her simply overpowering magnetic essence – will pull you in. Will pull anyone in. It could be the craziest person in the most desolate backwater gas station in the middle of nowhere, but when Debby steps out of a car in beautiful – and yet totally inappropriate – high heeled sandals to pump gas, men, boys and even some critters will come running from miles to do the job for her.

I truly believe that Debby never fully realized the power and the gift of this rare intrinsic magnetism.

That magnetism combined, of course, with her infectious giggle and her stunning, soulful eyes made her the life of every party she ever attended. And, let’s face it, wherever Debby went, there was a party.

That magnetism – combined with her incredible intelligence and keen insight – also made her a highly sought-after employee at some of the largest and most successful Fortune 500 and 100 business organizations. Multinational telecommunications companies so valued the way she could connect with people and organizations, in fact, they chose my niece, Debby to represent them in countries all over the world for many years.

Five minutes later, we hear cheers and clapping coming from the restaurant kitchen and this can only mean two things. (1) Bonnie has broken up with the horrible boyfriend and (2) the Whitaker family has no chance of getting coffee anytime soon.

Bonnie rushes from the kitchen to hug Debby just as Debby’s three adult daughters join our ever-widening group. Hugs all around. Deb’s kids are not at all surprised by the addition of Bonnie to our lives. It’s what Mom does. What is surprising is that despite the numerous empty seats available all along the collection of tables we’ve strung together for this now coffee-less breakfast, Debby’s daughters would prefer to pull up chairs from OTHER tables and just huddle loosely around their mother. I never thought much about that until this week, but now I can’t get that image out of my mind. Oh, they would argue and snap at each other, don’t get me wrong. But, those chairs sitting around the periphery of their mother says so much about them….about her. About my niece, Debby.

My family will say our final goodbyes to Debby today and, for a woman who had so many words in her all too brief life, there are simply no words today. Debby fell down a flight of stairs last Saturday and suffered a herniated brain stem, from which there was no recovery. In the blink of an eye, this smart, kind, generous and beautiful wife, mother, niece, aunt, friend and so much more is gone.

Breakfast and coffee finally do arrive and decisions are made as to how we will spend the rest of the day. A trip to the local zoo is chosen because of we have lots of little ones in the group.

A voice calls after the two who are dispatched to buy the tickets, “Buy an extra one! Bonnie is off duty in ten minutes and is going to join us!”

Yup, that’s my niece, Debby.

]]>Sun, 08 May 2016 18:26:17 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/the-simple-blessings-in-lifeIt’s a breathtakingly beautiful day in Milwaukee today, and we don’t get many of those in these here parts.

The flowers are blooming and the buds on the trees in our neighborhood are literally exploding in a variety of pink and purple shades. It seemed as though the entire world was smiling, as I walked our devil dog, Atticus Finch, this morning.

I had to smile too because it’s Mother’s Day – or “Evil Step-Mother’s Day” – as we like to call it in our house. But, it’s May 8 and that means it is also Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary. Is it possible that today would have marked 73 years of marriage? How can that be?

I don’t have any pithy anecdotes or quotes to share in this post, and yet I did feel compelled to write. As I was walking and taking in the beauty of life this morning, my mind was racing with hundreds of thoughts reminding me of all the myriad of ways in which I am blessed. Beginning, of course, with the wonderful blessings my family has given me – even though I may not have recognized them as such at the time.

Many of Mom and Dad’s most “famous” moments came rushing back to me in a flood.

“Kathy, are you wearing clean underwear?” Mom whispers, as Kathy is on a GURNEY being placed into an AMBULANCE!!

“Where’d you go for that pizza, David, CHICAGO!” yells a toothless Father, when David breaks curfew in Delavan.

I remember waiting for Joe to come chugging home to Bradford in his trusty Jolly Green Giant car. And, sitting with Mom In Newark praying that Bill’s continually broken down VW van would make it home with the girls for a visit.

I remember Michael’s friends patiently waiting for him to go out when he was home for a break from college. He couldn’t have a night on the town until he finished the ironing Mom had assigned to him – my clothes, I suspect.

I remember countless days and weekends following Paul from wrestling match to wrestling tournament all over the state of Pennsylvania. I knew so much about the sport by the time I was 9 years old, I could have been the referee.

And who can forget the ONE AND ONLY TIME, Janie broke the rules and allowed us to play “Can’t Touch The Ground” in Bradford resulting in the SNAP heard around the world as an arm on one of Nana Whitaker’s expensive wing chairs was ripped from it’s side during our explicitly forbidden game of jumping from chair to chair?

Why these memories came rushing back this morning I have no idea. I guess I simply miss Mom and Dad.

David and Charlie might remember the time we were in the parking lot in Sal’s Grocery store in Bradford – admonished to “sit still and don’t you dare move a muscle.” Leaping to that challenge, one of the boys immediately jumped in the front seat and put the car in Reverse, causing Mother and Father to return to the car, now sitting in the middle of the parking lot, the three of us locked in a code of silence as to who did what. I think Kathy was there, too, solidly having our backs.

In Newark, after church one day, we stopped at the little store at the bottom of the hill. Earlier in the morning, Dad had said something to the effect of, “Your mother deserves posies every day of the week.”

As we pulled into the store lot, with Dad again telling us to “not move a muscle,” we immediately developed our scheme. In the same strip mall of this store was a florist. Charlie was to go into the flower shop and get a “posy.” Sadly, when confronted with “what type of posy would you like?” Charlie froze – as only Charlie can do. He returned breathless with a pittance of flowers in his hand. “Did you know ‘posy’ is just another word for EVERY TYPE OF FLOWER IN THE WORLD?”

But, wait! We can’t get something for Mom and not for Dad, can we? NO! So, David is quickly dispatched to a different store and comes back with……a lovely can of Sprite. Nothing says love like a can of Sprite.

We didn’t get in trouble for this particular disobedience – but it did garner a few laughs.

I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner last night but I remember that Sunday morning escapade as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

“Who ya working for, Reddy Kilowatt?”

“The house is not a toy!”

“It’s not you I worry about, it’s all the other kooks on the road!”

“What’s the usual donation?”

These legendary quotes banging around in my head this morning made me smile and, ok, maybe shed a tear or two.

With much more love in my heart than I could ever possibly describe, I just wanted to write and say to my entire family “Happy Anniversary,” as we remember Jane and Bill. To all the wonderful Mom’s in our family, I wish you a happy, HAPPY Mother’s Day.

And, if anyone is traveling today, remember, “The cops are out in DROVES!”

Frank Gifford was the one man Mom was allowed to genuinely fawn over in front of Dad. In today's terms, Frank would have been on her "exemptions" list. You know, where you can have a list of "celebrity exemptions" that, if they somehow show up in your life, you are allowed to have a little tete-a-tete with them....no questions asked. (Yes, she IS rolling over right now).

But, seriously, what I remember about Frank Gifford is Mom and Dad's sacred Monday Night Football Night dates. In Delavan, they watched the game in the basement with that (what we thought at the time was so cool) orange shag carpet. (As I look back, I actually believe that carpet was quite hideous.)

These date nights were highlighted by Merkt's cheese, Ritz crackers and, of course, Mateus wine. And, unless someone was bleeding from the head, we were NOT to interrupt.

Mother loved Frank Gifford almost as much as she hated Howard Cosell, which was a problem because Daddy LOVED Howard Cosell. They rarely missed a Monday night in front of the telly.

As a teenager, I paid little attention to these seemingly unimportant moments, which is too bad. I had no idea what an absolutely adorable couple they really were.

Rest in peace, Frank. As your partner in crime, Dandy Don, said many times and our father repeated oh my gawd nauseatingly way way too many times, "Turn out the lights, the party's over."]]>Thu, 19 Jun 2014 18:41:18 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/why-i-didnt-write-on-fathers-dayI’ve been feeling bad that I didn’t write a post on Father’s Day; I certainly had the best of intentions. I began the day by sending an email message to my good friend, David – a Dad himself – who lost his father just one month ago. I wanted to let him know that it would be totally normal to find himself walking toward the phone many times throughout the day thinking he should call his father and that – even after five years – I still find myself reaching for the phone to do the same thing. I do. As I wrote that e-mail message, a sort of blue fog washed over me and I really couldn’t think of what to write or what memory to share so I put the Father’s Day blog post on hold for what I told myself would only be ‘a few hours’. Then, Sunday afternoon, Bob and I participated in a make shift ‘flash mob’ that was put together for our good friend, Charlie, who is in the last days of his battle with esophageal cancer. Diagnosed exactly one year ago, this incredibly smart, strong, witty, handsome and amazing man has mere days left in his journey. A fantastic father, his only daughter is set to be married next Saturday and the one prayer he has left in the world is that he be here to celebrate this special day with her. For the flash mob, in less than 12 hours, two women rallied about 40 of us and we gathered together shortly after lunch where we were handed rewritten lyrics to the song that was once “You Are My Sunshine” written by an advertising executive colleague. His song, while keeping the same tune, was entitled “We Love You Charlie” and, as the haphazardly parked group rapidly assembled along the country road outside Charlie’s home, we practiced singing it a few times to at least appear as though we knew what we were doing. We nervously laughed at the off-key singing and quickly pronounced ourselves “perfect” before we began our enthusiastic march down the long pebbled drive toward the dream home Charlie and Mary began building approximately thirty months ago. While no one spoke of it, I am sure many, like me, were cursing this cruel irony, as we were directed around to the back of the house outside the large sunroom overlooking Lake Michigan, where Charlie now spends his days. This dream house that Charlie so lovingly designed for their retirement years and into which they moved less than one year ago. This dream house that was intended to provide nothing but comfort now holding him captive. We awkwardly crooned a few verses of our new song and Charlie waved from his hospital bed. His bride Mary, the kindest and most caring friend in the world, allowed tears to run unabashedly down her face as she looked out at so many who were channeling their love through song. Their daughter, Martha, clung to her father’s side only briefly coming out to thank we merry band of singers. Tim, the lovely son-in-law-to-be ran around the group from one side to the other like a super hero trying to catch the entire experience on his iPhone. I suspect that is how he spends most of his days – these days – franticly running from person to person and task to task ….problem solving as best he can. Such an amazing soul, that Tim. We were in and out in less than seven minutes. Our ‘goodbyes’ far less animated than our ‘hellos’ had been just a few moments earlier. Waves of hands replacing the previous hugs and kisses…shuffling feet over the pebbled drive … no more purposeful marching.

Once home, I simply had nothing left inside of me to write.

It's not that I don’t always have much to say about my father. I do. So many memories and stories to tell.

One of the things I find most interesting as I ponder Dad these days is not whether I was the most spoiled (get over it) but the unique relationship I believe I had with him that none of my friends had with their fathers. Maybe mom and dad were just tired when I got to high school having had 9 before me…or maybe they felt guilty about moving to Arizona the minute I went to college…I don’t know. But, I do know that I feel as though I had a "simpler" more "easy" relationship with them, more of a friendship, particularly in my collegiate years. And it was very special.

One night I came home from the college Library after studying (I remember this because nights at the library were so very rare) and my roommate, Peggy, said that Dad had called and left a message that I was to call him back as soon as I returned home. Peggy looked concerned, which made me concerned. I quickly picked up the phone and dialed.

DAD: Hello!

SUSAN: Hi Dad. It’s Susan. You OK?

DAD: Oh, yeah. OK - I’ve got a good one for you. So, four men are out golfing in their regular foursome early one morning and a hearse goes by with tons of cars behind it all with their headlights on and one of the guys takes off his golf hat right there on the fairway and holds it over his heart until all of the cars have passed. His friends just stand there – stunned. As soon as the last car passes and the man puts his hat back on, one of the other players says, ‘hey, that was really nice of you to recognize that procession like that,’ and the guy says ‘oh, well, it was the least I could do – she was a darn good wife for 27 years.’ BWAAH HA HA HA! Tell your friends that one, ok?

SUSAN: Ha Ha. Yeah Dad, I will. Was that all?

DAD: Yup. Just thought you’d like that joke.

I remember turning around to see my friend, Peggy, who was still certain something terrible had happened, and just shaking my head.

On that same college house refrigerator, we had a huge red piece of paper with “Bill Whitakerisms” written on it. “the house is not a toy”, “who you working for Reddy Kilowatt?”, “where’d you go for that pizza, Chicago?”, to name just a few.

I don’t think I ever told him how cool my roommates thought he was. In my typical (okay, spoiled) way, I just took these things for granted. Cool? Dad? Really?

In our family we often reminisce about how we were unfairly punished as children – and believe me I absolutely remember the hot sting of his belt – but when I think of Dad today, my memories are mainly about the friend he was. About the man who wrote us letters with bold ideas. About the guy who wanted to make sure I had a good joke to tell.

While I pray for a miracle for my friends Charlie and Mary so that Martha can have her dad with her for just nine more days, I also hope they are able to share all of the things they want to say to each other in these last few precious moments.

Oh, and lest I forget...Happy Belated Father’s Day to Dads everywhere…including many of my crazy brothers, brothers-in-law, my wonderful husband, and the gone but never forgotten Bill Whitaker.

]]>Sun, 25 May 2014 21:20:30 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/brother-michael-and-my-lost-teen-yearsI’ve been advised to add some “dirt” to the family stories within this blog. “After all,” one brother recently told me “it wasn’t all sunshine and happiness growing up.” So, while this may be difficult to digest, I feel compelled to now come forward and confess that my brother Michael ruined most of my teen years. Allow me to back up. Eighth grade is a difficult year for any child under even the rosiest of circumstances. Children’s bodies are going through so many changes and kids at that age can be so cruel to each other - girls especially. My eighth grade was made even more special because my family moved to a new city smack dab in the middle of the school year and boy was I miserable. While I know I was an absolute angel for 90 to 95% of my formative years, I distinctly remember being shall we say a bit of a “handful” in that eighth grade year. I had zero friends and the mean girls at the new school - as only girls at this age can be - were horribly exclusive. As a writing prompt one day, my new English teacher had us write down what we would do if we were trapped inside our houses for hours due to rain or a snowstorm. One of the absolute nicest of the mean girls was called upon to read her written work out loud and her literary masterpiece said – I kid you not - “Call up Sue Whitaker and actually talk to her.” Yeah, eighth grade was a magical time. I was furious with my father for making us move and I let him know it every chance I got. It is a wonder I can even stand upright today so big was that chip on my shoulder. Dad just didn't GET anything and I could not understand for the life of me how on earth I had been dealt this ridiculous hand of living with a man who was so limited intellectually and clearly so inferior to me. So you can imagine how shocked I was when older brother, Michael, came home with his wife for a visit one weekend that year praising Dad's parenting. Mike, now in his thirties, had been generally held in my high regard prior to this visit. Michael brought with him a very special gift for Dad on this particular trip home and I think he may have actually left his car running in the driveway upon his arrival he was so excited for Dad to open it. Inside this carefully wrapped box was a wood plaque featuring one of Mark Twain's famous quotations:“When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.” ARE YOU KIDDING ME? My eyes rolled too far back in my brain and my head nearly fell off the back of my neck making it impossible for me to shoot Michael with the evil death stare I wanted to. While tears began to form in both Michael's and Dad's eyes, I made a hasty exit from the room - most likely to vomit. I'm not sure if I said out loud that Michael had lost his mind, but I know I certainly thought it. Dad wasted no time getting out his hammer and nail and proudly hanging the plaque at the base of the staircase so that I – and everyone else in the free world – would have no choice but to see it every time I went into the often used family room. Seriously, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? From time to time I’d catch Dad staring wistfully at the plaque and again I’d lose my eyeballs and curse under my breath, Damn you Michael. Like it was yesterday, I vividly remember thinking ‘Ha! No way am I going to feel any different when I am twenty-one…nooooo waaaaay.’ And then I went to college and Mom and Dad moved to Arizona. By the time of my first visit to their new home in Mesa that Thanksgiving, the God forsaken plaque had found a new wall on which to hang. For some reason, though, it didn’t bother me nearly as much. In fact, I found myself reading it and I don’t know if I had just helped mom cut onions or something because the next thing I knew, tears were forming in MY eyes. Then I caught Dad looking at ME with that wistful look and he had tears in HIS eyes, too. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?Damn you Michael. ]]>Sun, 11 May 2014 15:12:51 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/life-after-death-in-a-good-wayI’ve been thinking a great deal recently about life after death. No, not the “come back as a dog to pee on all the people I didn’t care for so much in this life” kind. Rather, more of the spiritual sensation, if you will, of keeping loved ones with you in special and meaningful ways long after they’ve passed. I know everyone has different feelings in this regard and I don’t mean for this to be a strident or “out there” kind of post. But, for what it is worth, I wanted to share some recent experiences….particularly for our family - particularly today. Bob and I had an absolutely fabulous weekend last week watching our wonderful son, David, graduate from college. Oh, what a day. So proud and excited for him. Beyond the smiles, tears and cabernet for two straight days, the ear-to-ear grin on David’s face as he crossed the commencement stage showed how happy he was and, at the same time, how truly ready he is for this next chapter in his life journey. While I know all of this is as it should be, as Mother’s Day approached this weekend, I found myself feeling quite blue with the realization that it is quite likely that we won’t share many, if any, Mother’s Day mornings (or, as we like to call it in our house, “Evil Step-Mother’s Day”) together anymore. Granted, “morning” for David typically meant 1 p.m., but nobody anywhere could beat his French toast and I have to tell you I am going to miss those special days. So, I have been pouting and feeling sorry for myself when all of a sudden yesterday I walked into my office where Thorny sits – and Thorny had quite a message for me. Thorny, for those of you who may not remember, is what I named the Crown of Thorns brother David gave me as a mere twig many years ago cut away from Mother’s beautiful original plant that adorned our family home for decades. (Yes, perhaps it is a lame name but it is MY plant – so deal with it). For years after brother David gave me Thorny, it remained nothing more than that skimpy twig. I was certain it was my horrible horticultural skills that was stunting its growth. I watered it and talked to it faithfully for three years with absolutely not one bit of progress. When Bob and I were married and moved it into our house, he thought it was the scariest looking thing he had ever seen and when I insisted it be placed in the front living room, I distinctly remember seriously raised eyebrows. I hate to say this – but it wasn’t until after Mom died that Thorny really began to grow. Since then, it has had three pot replacements and it is now nearly as big as Mom’s original shrub that we all so cherished. Regardless of your beliefs, no one will ever convince me that part of Mom's spirit is not inside that plant. So back to yesterday when I entered the office. While Thorny is typically only green in color with a rare bloom on one or two odd ends, I found it covered in beautiful pink blossoms. It literally took my breath away. After just a moment of confusion, the sudden appearance of these blooms became crystal clear. It was Mom – as sure as I am typing on this keyboard – telling me to get over my bad self, stop pouting and be thankful for what lies ahead. If that weren’t enough to freak me out, along came Louie. Many of the younger Whitakers will remember Louie the Cardinal (Yes, he is named after the baseball team but Nana McCann named him – not me – thank you very much). Nana McCann would spend hours upon hours at the kitchen window in the Delavan, Wisconsin house monitoring our back yard bird feeder. From her perch, she would admonish the birds she arbitrarily had decided had eaten enough food by rapping her large rings loudly against the kitchen window. “Go on….get outa there,” she would yell to no one in particular in her New England intonation. When the birds would ignore her, as they regularly did, she would often send me or brothers David and Charlie outside to fetch her small rocks that she would hurl at the feeder…and unbeknownst to many, she had quite an arm. We had names for many of these birds and other animals (let me tell you Sally the Squirrel knew when to high tail it out of the feeder, if the kitchen window started to open). Louie the Cardinal was by far the family favorite. And, to my good fortune – or fate – Louie has stayed with me, following me from town to town and state to state throughout my entire life. It seems whenever I am alone or in need, I am regularly surprised to find the presence of my bright red friend. I know I have written to some of you privately about Louie when I thought you may need a pick me up or when I felt he was talking to you through me – so this may not be new news to some. The presence of the cardinal in my life is difficult to describe. Often, Louie’s purpose is to make me feel better about losing Mom and Dad – or to make me smile, recalling fun family memories. More times than not, he simply makes me feel that everything is going to be ok in the world. So, I awoke early to do some writing this morning and who should appear on my windowsill looking as dapper as can be? You guessed it. Again, I don’t want to be super duper gooey. But I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. I don’t know if Louie was bringing Mom to me for Mother’s Day or what this morning’s message was, but he was there and it was real. Just like life and time together with those we love, Louie fluttered away all too quickly before I could snap a photo of him on the window’s ledge. I ampleased, however, to share a picture of the beautiful blooming Thorny. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I still hear ya.

]]>Wed, 01 Jan 2014 20:57:07 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/holy-day-of-obligationWhile I recognize that today is in fact a holy day of obligation, I must confess I did not go to church. January 1, as many of you might recall, was mother’s FAVORITE “Holy Day of Obligation”. Or, as she used to say, “Ahbligation”.

Today, on what would be Mom's 90th birthday, I thought it would be important to reflect for a brief moment on what this holy day really means. Research shows that – to the Catholic Church – January 1st is known as the “Solemnity of Mary, the Holy Mother of God” and is a liturgical feast “honoring her divine motherhood.” That is some coincidence, wouldn’t you say? A coincidence because in our family, regardless of the church you may attend or to whom you might pray, on January 1, we disparate Whitakers are absolutely unified as we honor Jane and the magical and, yes, even divine ways she mothered each and every one of us. Happy 90th birthday and Happy Holy Day of Obligation, Mom. You are in our hearts every moment of every day.

]]>Fri, 29 Nov 2013 10:18:38 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/feeling-thankful1Happy Thanksgiving – a little late. I am posting this blog at 2 a.m. on November 29, after just this minute washing the last wine glass and running the dishwasher for the third time, following a wonderful Thanksgiving meal. I had every intention of writing earlier in the day, but apparently my time management isn’t what I’d hoped it would be. Certainly, it can’t compare to what Mother’s was when she used to navigate big holiday meals. As I took a moment to reflect about Mom and our family tonight (ok, this morning) after everyone had gone to bed, I was once again stumped by the same question I have often asked myself throughout the years “How did she do it?” Seriously, how? Any day of the week with ten children must have been a challenge but holiday meals in particular surely were insane. Yet, I always seem to recall things happening on time and with Mother fully in control in the kitchen…..and always wearing that beautiful smile of hers.

Mom and one of her famous holiday meals.

Try as I might, I have few recollections of any major meal mishaps of import. {Editor’s Note: The Stephen “best spaghetti in the whole world…” episode did not happen at Thanksgiving and therefore does not count for purposes of this blog.} As the youngest, what I remember most about Thanksgiving holidays was waiting for my older siblings to come home. Joe in his “Jolly Green Giant” car from Michigan, which was forever breaking down and Bill in a similarly challenged VW Van travelling from Kent. (For heaven’s sake, did no one have a working vehicle?) I remember Mike’s friends waiting for him to go out the nanosecond he arrived home from college but having to continue to wait because, interestingly, mother had work (like laundry or ironing) for him to do the very same nanosecond he arrived home as well….and the guys would just hang out and watch while he ironed. I also vividly remember the quiet sadness that would fill the house when the older siblings would go home or back to school at the end of a holiday weekend, even with five or six children still left behind. It was palpable. It was one of the rare times Mother could be witnessed without that warm smile.And who could forget Dad trying to outsmart the telephone company, while we waited for word of safe return from those on their return travels? Sadly, I know there was one time where I did not fully grasp the nuances of the “collect from ...” code as early as I should have. SUSAN: Hello OPERATOR: I have a collect call from – please state your name. JANE: Jane SUSAN: Janie is that you? OPERATOR: Ma’am, do you accept the charges? SUSAN: What? Janie is that you? DAD: Susie, give me the phone! Jane you say? Hmmmm, no, I don't believe we know anyone by that name. We will not accept the charges. Oh yeah, Ma Bell had no idea.Of course there are many other stories, but these are just a few recollections in the early morning hours that remind me why I am so thankful today – and every day – to be from such a wonderful family. Happy Thanksgiving - even if it is a little late.

]]>Sun, 13 Oct 2013 19:28:24 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/the-lyrics-of-our-lifeIsn’t it funny how music, as they say, can “take you away”? Hearing a few beats of a particular song, for example, can immediately thrust you right back into the time and the place when you first heard those notes. Growing up in my family, music was paramount. So many decades – so many songs – so many memories. I remember Brother Paul worshiping Bob Dylan to the absolute mind-boggling frustration of Father. When I think of Kathy, I think of Michael Jackson’s “I’ll Be There”. It is virtually impossible for me to hear “A Horse With No Name” and not think of Charlie. He loved that song in a rather obsessive-compulsive way. My job, as I recall, was to yell from wherever I was in the house whenever I heard it on the radio so that he could come sing along. He’d come running from wherever HE was in the house….sometimes sliding Tom Cruise/Risky Business style (thankfully fully dressed, however) at the top of our stairs in Bradford, Pennsylvania and serenade us word for word. The same was true with David and Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again, Naturally”. (It gets worse, David, Charlie and I actually used to record ourselves SINGING these pathetic songs into a tape recorder – but that is a different blog post for another day). Have I mentioned that not one of us could sing on key if we were held at gunpoint? Truth be told I was perhaps the worst “singer” in the bunch? (Please note the use of quotation marks around the word “singer” is quite deliberate here). I was so inept that to my knowledge to this day I am, in fact, the only person for whom the music requirement at Delavan-Darien High School was waived. Not kidding. I was asked to quit the choir and never return in my freshman year. Humiliatingly bad. The only family member who could (and still can) sing is sister Jane. In fact, in the late 60s, she made a RECORD. I thought she was so cool. Her high school choir taped “Aquarius” and put it on some flimsy vinyl to sell as a fundraiser so they could go on a trip of some kind. All I knew, however, was that there was an actual RECORD and my SISTER was on it. For years I thought Jane was the original artist whenever we heard the song on the radio. Everyone knows that song, right? “Da da da da da da da da da da da Aquarius….AQUARIUS.Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah Aquarius!AQUAR - EE - US!!!!" Oh, Jane was so cool. She still is. Despite our collective lack of talent, we Whitakers loved to groove. While we of course had our favorites, we sang along to just about any song on the radio. And God help us all if "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" came on the radio when we were all in the car at the same time. We let it rip whenever we heard that bad boy (pun intended). "He's got a custom Continental and an Eldorado too….he's got a .32 gun in his pocket for fun he got a razor in his shoe." If we were feeling particularly groovy, we might bounce the "bads" around in the car…. as in Kathy would say the first one and then "bounce" the second to Paul or Charlie in the back seat. He's "bad" from the front…."bad" from the back…all together now "Leroy Brown…baddest man in the whole damn town." OK, maybe we had to wait until I was 12 to say "damn", but, man, we thought we were the Partridge Family and the von Trapps all rolled into one kick ass band. Leroy Brown had nothing on the Whitakers. Jim Croce’s “Leroy Brown” was special in another way, too. It was a song that we watched our parents dance to and their dancing always captivated us. Dad may have had his tough love and moments of questionable discipline with us but when it came to dancing with Mom, there was nothing more tender in the world. Sometime early in their marriage they took dance lessons and, to me, it was simply magical watching them take the dance floor at parties, weddings or even the family kitchen, if the mood hit them just right. “Leroy Brown” and “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” were two of the songs that could immediately get them to their feet anytime, anywhere. And, of course, their beloved “I’ll be loving you,Always”, which renders us all speechless to this day. With ten children, we weren’t what you would describe as traditional country club people, but I do remember our entire brood filing in to the Penhills Country Club in Bradford on the rare special occasions when we all got to go out together. Often, the club would have music and in those days “Leroy Brown” was a classic that was frequently played by bands of all types. Watching Dad escort Mom to the dance floor and the two of them magically twist and turn into each other’s waiting arms was always the highlight of any evening. For decades to follow “Leroy” made the top of the band and DJ request list at wedding after wedding and reunion after reunion. In 2004, deep in the throes of Alzheimer’s, Dad hadn’t called many of us by our correct name in a long time. In fact, he often referred to brother Bill as his Uncle. Most days, at this stage, he knew he was supposed to know Mother, but how and why he knew her was often confusing for him – and, of course, heartbreaking for Mom. Yet, after hearing just a few beats of a song at a family wedding that May, his tired eyes perked up and he immediately grabbed her hands and pulled her out of her chair. While Dad’s disease normally kept his steps timid, it was Mother who was nervous and slow as they headed to the dance floor this time. If he had been looking at us, he would have seen all of his children staring with mouths agape and tears flowing unabashed. But, of course, he wasn't looking at us, he was looking straight into the eyes of his bride as he let the music carry him away - "he's got a .32 gun in his pocket for fun and a razor in his shoe…" His feet and legs operated automatically underneath him – almost outside of the man who we thought was gone but whom the music temporarily returned to us – and he never missed a beat. Back at Penhills they were, turning – arms open to each other. When the music stopped so, too, did Daddy’s memory once again fade. He was startled and I suspect a little frightened by the raucous cheers and applause from everyone who had circled the dance floor to catch a glimpse of this amazing couple. For us, however, the magic of this tune and other family music lives on just as outlined in their forever love song: “Not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but always.”]]>Tue, 27 Aug 2013 23:23:41 GMThttp://www.fromthebottomup.net/family-memories/shut-up-and-prayI hate thunderstorms. The worst thing about thunderstorms is having to DRIVE in one. I was reminded of this fact one day last week when I had to drive to work during a doozie of one such storm. It was a harrowing experience. Granted, my office is less than four miles from my home but it was harrowing nonetheless. Booming thunder, lightning, dark/scary clouds the whole bit. Harrowing. The only person who may have disliked thunderstorms more than me was my wonderful mother. Of course, she hated inclement weather of any sort. A few raindrops equaled a “storm” as far as she was concerned. And don’t even get her started when the snow began to fall. This might seem unusual given that we lived in locations such as Bradford, Pennsylvania, Bay City, Michigan and Delavan, Wisconsin, where bitter cold temperatures and massive amounts of snow each year were the norm, but what do I know? So, as I was driving to work through this treacherous storm last week (harrowing, I tell you), I was reminded of one particular thunderstorm Mother “survived”. It was June of 1975, the summer we moved from Ohio to Wisconsin. Dad had started his new job at Ajay Sporting Goods months earlier and the family was to follow after school let out. Wisconsin, here we come.I believe it is important to mention here that Mom also wasn’t a big fan of driving long distances without Dad – so you can imagine how exciting the notion of taking this trip was to her with five of her children, regardless of how adorable we may or may not have been. Typically, mother held her cards tightly to her vest when it came to any “issues” she had with Daddy, at least for most of my formative years. I rarely remember her saying a cross word about him in front of the children. From the very first moment we got in the car on this particular journey, however, all I heard was “I am going to kill your father when we get to Wisconsin.” One problem was Paul; I am not going to lie. Brother Paul could do no right. Several months before this trip, Paul had moved backed home to Ohio and he had done the unforgivable sin of crashing her beloved Chrysler. The very same Chrysler in which we were now all traveling. He was TOAST. Seriously, Paul could have pooped gold bars at every rest stop between Ohio and Wisconsin and it wouldn’t have made one bit of difference – it was O-V-E-R for Paul. The more he offered to help drive, the angrier she became. So, there was that. Paul next to Mom in the co-pilot seat but Mom not speaking a word to him. Then, the weather began to go bad. And, I do mean bad. I am certain the four children in the back seat were getting along splendidly, as only children ages 11 – 19 can do trapped in a car for ten hours. So it HAD to be the weather that turned the trip south. Let's go with the weather. If memory serves me correctly, the first thing we saw was just a pitch-black sky. Everywhere. It swallowed the car. It was like the entire world we were moving to was going to be black. Then, the rain started. The rain wasn’t THAT bad at first – but it steadily and increasingly picked up steam. Silence in the car as the rain increased and lightning shot around every window. Mother’s hands appeared to be glued to the steering wheel. Of course I was too young then to know how difficult driving under those conditions must have been but, even so, everyone in the car could feel the tension. Fortunately, there was a rest area mid-way through the storm and we were able to pull off of the road to take a breath. Like bar dice falling out of a tumbler we all fell out of the car and scattered in various directions to escape the ticking time bomb that was my mother. And that is when we met him. The Paul Revere of the Weigh Station. Otherwise known as the biggest dork on Interstate 90. He had no official role but he took it upon himself to frighten weary travelers even more than they already were with terms of endearment such as “70 miles of winds are comin!” and my personal favorite “Ain’t got no business ahead, don’t go!” He was too much. HE may have thought he was Chuck Norris on an episode of “Walker, Texas Ranger”, but with his pants hitched up and his belly hanging over his belt – not so much. Again, he held absolutely no “position” but perhaps he owned a radio and, therefore, that made him an "authority” and people were flocking to him. This Freak loved it. I don’t want to say we Whitakers were cynics – even at such a tender young age – but we immediately made fun of him directly behind his back. Brother David would regale the family for YEARS to follow imitating this man. Despite our attempts at comedy, at the time we were just like the other wayward travelers huddled together off of the highway, we listened to him. And we were scared. My Mother, however, was not to be deterred. We had just over 100 miles to go and she was hell bent on getting to her destination. Today. “I am going to kill your father when we get to Wisconsin.” (According to Chuck Norris we might quite possibly die in the process but apparently my Mother was really ticked at Daddy!) Back into the car we go. I don’t remember which of the backseat geniuses chose to say something…..it could have been me. And it could have been something really intelligent like “Hey, Mom, why is that cloud that looks like a funnel CHASING OUR CAR?” “Shut up and pray!” was all she quietly said. And we did. Rain pelted the dark windows as we drove into and through Chicago and nobody said a word. Occasionally we backseat geniuses would glance wildly at each other. And, occasionally, someone (probably David) would say “70 miles a winds are comin!” in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Shut up and pray!” is all Mother would repeat. Miraculously, as we emerged on the western side of Chicago, the sky brightened and by the time we crossed the Wisconsin border, the rain had stopped completely. In fact, by the time we rolled into downtown Delavan, some might say it was downright cheery. Little did we know another storm was brewing. Again like bar dice, we all fell out of the car that mother haphazardly parked at the front curb of the Delavan House Hotel, upon our much anticipated arrival. “Please ring Mr. Whitaker’s room,” my Mother exhaled to the Front Desk Clerk. My mother was normally the kindest, most polite woman on the planet. Never before this trip and, certainly not one time after, did she ever utter the words "shut up" to anyone and absolutely not to her children, but honestly, she had HAD IT. Her coolness to the Clerk on this day deserved a pass.

While not actual geniuses, her children WERE smart enough to stand a safe distance behind her while we waited. And waited. “Mr. Whitaker doesn’t appear to be in his room,” the unaware clerk said to my Mother. “Could you try again? I’m sure there must be some mistake,” mother replied through gritted teeth and a fake smile. “No mistake – just no answer.” “TRY AGAIN!” all five children thought in unison – willing her to ring the damn room again. Just then, guess who shuffles out of the hotel bar looking happy, relaxed as though without a care in the world. Mr. Big Man on Campus of the Delavan House Hotel having lived there for the last several months. Talk about shut up and pray. “Oh, Mr. Whitaker, these people are looking for you.” PEOPLE? PEOPLE????? These PEOPLE are his FAMILY!! Family, who you might be interested to know, have just risked life and limb traveling with a tornado quite literally attached to the rear bumper of their car to be reunited to with their husband and father. We are not PEOPLE!!!!!!! {EDITOR's NOTE: These words were not said out loud, of course, but conveyed through other means, as only Whitakers can convey.} As far as Mom was concerned, Dad should have greeted us at the sign that said, “Welcome to Wisconsin” at the Illinois/Wisconsin border. To have not at a minimum been at the curb of the hotel - let alone in his ROOM - was the worst possible act of treason he could have committed. She was livid. Daddy, no slacker in the getting out of the dog house department, immediately picked up on Mother’s dagger eyes as he emerged from the bar and he went right to work salving the wounds. I believe it was sometime in late August when she finally forgave him.

Until her dying days, she graciously allowed us to tease her about the "shut up and pray" reprimands, but Mom never did get over her fear of thunderstorms.]]>